


Mind Over Matter

by EternallyMe, umaswervin



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Closeted Eddie Kaspbrak, Closeted Richie Tozier, Eventual Smut, Fix-It, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Mentions of Attempted Suicide, Multi, Richie Tozier Being an Asshole, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Slow Burn, coma eddie kaspbrak, richie tozier is also angry and tired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:27:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25033165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternallyMe/pseuds/EternallyMe, https://archiveofourown.org/users/umaswervin/pseuds/umaswervin
Summary: “Perfect. Great! The gangs all here! Look at us! Hashtag reunion part tres! Right, Michael?”“I’m sorry?” Mike questioned his brows furrowed in confusion. He and Bill had only just walked in the door after all. They were completely unaware of Eddie’s current state and Richie’s sudden fit of anger. Bill looked fucking stupid, like all the blood had been drained from his face. Yet he looked equally as confused as Mike.Richie wanted to punch him.oryou can have a little fix-it, as a treat <3
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	1. Taste My Disaster

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This chapter is a bit short but chapters will be longer in the future. This is purely an intro! Welcome to angst central, clowntown. Where Richie is angry, and Eddie is in a coma.

_Eds, how the fuck did we get here?_

_I should’ve trusted my gut and took you out of this death trap when I had the chance._

_Your bag is still packed._

_Your shirts are still obnoxiously folded tight in that comically big suitcase._

_Dude, you over packed._

_You better pay for my dry cleaning when you get out of this, Spaghetti man._

_If you get out of this._

_Your blood is on my hands._

_Your blood is everywhere._

_You're so tiny, how could there be this much blood in your body?_

_I'm gonna be so pissed if you die on me, man._

_I love you._

_Please._

“Richie! Richie! Honey, listen. RICHIE!” 

_ Your blood is on my hands.  _

There is a voice yelling, Beverly, but it sounds like it’s far away, across the world even. Richie’s grip is tight on the smaller body laid across his thighs, his hand twisted in his own leather jacket which pressed firmly on the open wound on Eddie’s chest. A makeshift dressing. His other hand was busy smoothing back his tousled brown hair. It was usually much more groomed, combed to perfection but at this moment it was stained with red. The red that transferred from Richie’s fingers. It was being coated with Eddie’s very own blood. 

“Richie. I need you to listen to me. Are you pressing down hard? You need to apply enough pressure to stop-” 

“Bev, I think he knows.” 

_ Is that Ben?  _

“ Please. Honey, you need to talk to me. Say something.” Beverely leans over the center console of the car to turn towards him, her hands waving dramatically in front of his face.

The fog in his mind lifts and reality crashes down around him. His eyes set on Beverly’s face and he tries to make sense of her expression, but the words are just out of focus. He glances up and happens to catch Ben’s gaze in the rearview mirror. 

“Hey Rich, you with us, Buddy?” Ben’s tone was so soft it nearly made Richie sob. “We’re almost there.”

Suddenly, two hands were gripping the sides of his face. They felt of debris and dried blood. It was almost comforting. “Richie, check his pulse.” 

In a quick but fumbling motion he places his index and middle fingers against the soft area just beside his windpipe. 

“It’s so slow, Bev.” He croaked. 

Her hold on his face fell but her sympathetic look remained. “Just keep putting pressure down, okay?” 

So he did. 

“We’re here.” Ben said. 

Richie checked his pulse again and this time he felt nothing below his fingers. Eddie’s heart had stopped. At that moment it felt as if Richie’s heart had stopped too. Richie felt a scream crawl up the back of his throat.

“He’s not breathing, Man, he’s not breathing! We have to get him inside. We have to get him inside right fucking now-” 

He hears the doors opening and slamming on Ben and Beverely’s sides and then the one open on his own.

Gathering Eddie’s body he pulls him from the backseat careful not to jostle the wound, or fuck it up more than he already has. His eyes bounce wildly from Beverely to Ben and then back down to Eddie. 

Then he was rushing forward in long strides through the glass sliding doors. 

‘He needs fuckin’ help! He's not breathing! FUCK! Holy shit, someone needs to fucking help h-” 

A blonde nurse interrupts him, “Sir, you are going to have to stop shouting and let us take over. You have to lay him down.”

Then almost on cue a flurry of nurses and doctors converge on the scene, transferring Eddie’s body from Richie’s tight hold onto the stretcher. Richie could still feel the ghost of Eddie's body lingering on his fingertips, he had the scarlet stains to prove it. A constant reminder that they all may have just gotten Eddie Kaspbrak killed. That he may have gotten Eddie Kaspbrak killed. His eyes avert to the same blonde nurse who had spoken to him before. She was nearly on top of Eddie, both of her hands pressing to his chest. She had started compressions and was trying desperately to kick start his heart back up. Her moves were more medically precise than he could have ever been in the back of his Mustang. It made him deliriously think back to their first venture in the Neibolt house where he had attempted to set Eddie’s arm and went about it terribly. At least at that time he had some sort of grip on the situation. He’s ripped from his thoughts when the wheels of the stretcher began to roll and without missing a beat, Richie blindly followed it. 

A different nurse stops him short, “Sir, you are going to have to stay here while we take care of your friend. You can’t follow us beyond this point but you’re welcome to wait here, if you’d like. But we have to go right now,” without a second to breathe, or get one last glance at the person he wishes was him instead, Eddie was wheeled off. The sentence that just came out of her mouth makes Richie’s eyes widen. The thought of not being able to follow Eddie damn near shakes him to his core. A sense of panic washes over his body, sending a shock of electricity through his bones. His shoulders rise up. He needed to be there, with him, right now. He opens his mouth to protest but Ben beats him to it, a reassuring hand on Richie’s shoulder.

“Rich, we have to let them do their job. We would only get in the way.”

“Fuck you, man. No, FUCK you. You’re the ones who got us to stay! We could have been half way to...fuckin’ anywhere else right now! But instead, Eddie’s fucking bleeding out in there. His bloods all over me! My car! His heart  _ stopped _ . He stopped breathing in my arms, Ben! So, don’t play the good guy and tell me what “we” have to do. You’ve done enough. Okay? Fucking enough.” He shrugged off Ben’s touch like it burned him, backing up. 

Beverly takes a hesitant step closer. “I know you're upset. We’re all upset but we are not playing the blame game.” 

“Actually, I would LOVE to play the blame game. I'll start!” Richie’s gaze dips to a non-existent watch on his wrist, “right now.” 

Before the ‘blame game’ could even halfway start, Bill and Mike chose that moment to storm through the hospital doors. 

“Perfect. Great! The gangs all here! Look at us! Hashtag reunion part tres! Right, Michael?” 

“I’m sorry?” Mike questioned his brows furrowed in confusion. He and Bill had only just walked in the door after all. They were completely unaware of Eddie’s current state and Richie’s sudden fit of anger. Bill looked fucking stupid, like all the blood had been drained from his face. Yet he looked equally as confused as Mike. 

Richie wanted to punch him. 

“Eddie’s GREAT by the way! His heart decided to take a little detour and  _ stop _ . Wow, I love being with you guys! Shit, let's all just hold hands and KUMBAYAH.” Richie sneered, dragging long fingers through his disheveled curls, breaking through the mats that Eddie’s blood created there. 

“Rich, please.” Beverly breathed out, her voice strained and imploring for Richie to let up. 

“Richie, I know you and Eddie were…”

‘Eddie and I are  _ what _ , Billy? Go ahead. Finish that sentence.”

Bill swallowed hard, choosing his words wisely, careful not to push Richie even further, “Close.” 

“I’m not doing this. What I am gonna do is plant my ass in one of these chairs and wait until someone tells me what the shit is going on with Eddie. Fine by y’all? Any objections? Speak now or forever hold your goddamn peace.” Richie spoke in a slow, almost southern drawl. He couldn't for the life of him place why he was doing an accent at this given moment, but considering his state of mind it wasn't out of the norm. He pantomimed tipping a cowboy hat as he plopped himself down into whichever chair was closest. The room drowned in an uncomfortable silence and the rest of the losers sat with him. Beverly slid a hand onto the top of Richie’s back. Richie doesn’t stop her. 


	2. You Know You're On My Mind/Birdland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look at that...Eddie's still in a coma. That sucks! Richie sings a song, makes amends, and calls a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to birdland, clowntown.

It was day ten of Eddie Kaspbrak in a coma and Richie Tozier had forgotten how to properly breathe without him. There was a small part of Richie that wished that he could turn back the clock. To go back to being a mediocre, miserable comedian who had no memory of where he was born and raised. He wouldn't miss the aching feeling that something was missing though. He wouldn’t miss struggling to answer questions pressing on where _The Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier_ was brought up.

_“So, Richie Tozier! Tell me, what kind of hellish town did the Trashmouth pop out of?”_

_“Yeah, where the fuck am I from?” It was an honest question._

_The interviewer cackled, throwing his head back and making a show of his own laughter. It was nearly theatrical. These interviewer fucks were always so pretentious._

_Richie matched the laughter, bringing a hand to the back of his neck, “Glad someone thinks i'm funny,” He told him. “But that...wasn’t a joke?”_

_The interviewer erupted in laughter once more._

_Okay, asshole. That wasn’t a joke either. Stop laughing with your mouth open that wide. No one wants to see how scarily white your teeth are._

Richie shook off the memory. Something about it gave him a sense of ick that he couldn’t seem to explain. It's not like Richie didn’t want to remember Eddie, or the rest of the losers for that matter. He would give anything to not have witnessed one of Pennywise’s freakish claws skewer through Eddie’s chest. Or at least, if he _could_ turn back the clock, he would have made sure it was him instead. Richie would murder an innocent to speak to Stan right now. Stanley Uris could read Richie to shreds and look mildly inconvenienced doing it. He needed that sharp wit to knock him down on his ass right now. Stan would absolutely obliterate him if he saw how resentful he was acting towards the losers and would probably burn his pity party to the fucking ground without blinking an eye. Richie itches to call his phone, to hear the sound of his voice play over his voicemail. If only for a second. 

Visiting hours were over now, laying staring at his ceiling and being existential was getting old. Besides, he had tried to charm the blonde nurse with his genius humor to stay longer by Eddie’s bedside and that was a hit and a miss. So, grabbing his phone he debated trying to try and stalk find Stan on facebook (if his account was still there) but there were so many Uris’s that he quickly gave up. Besides, he figured Stan was probably at some bird watching event somewhere in the woods, roughin’ it to be with his feathery friends. No connections in bird land. Heaven, bird land...tomato, potato. Same difference. Richie knew he should be spilling his guts to someone right about now, one of the alive and not comatosed losers preferably. He’d rather drown his sorrows instead. Bottoms up! He did contemplate whether he wanted to get incredibly plastered or not. What if Eddie so happens to wake up tomorrow and Richie is hungover? Jesus Christ, no drinking for Trashmouth tonight. Richie decides on finding something on Netflix as a healthier alternative. He’s afraid if he sees his comedy special pop up on his recommendations, he’ll blow chunks. Richie brings a hand up to his glasses, hovering his whole hand over the frames so that the television is out of sight. After a few fumbly, blind clicks a show is selected. Gossip Girl it is. He thanked bird land it wasn’t his stupid fucking netflix special.

\------

_“Rich,hey, Rich wake up! Yeah, yeah there he is, buddy. Richie listen, I think I got him, man. I think I killed It! I did. I think I killed it for real-”_

_“Eddie-”_

_“Richie…Richie...”_

_Black blood pooled from his lips, previous childlike excitement crushed in a swift impaling blow. Eddie’s eyes were rounded brown, in shock as the intruding claw was twisting him away. The scene drifted, dark, suddenly Richie wasn’t there, instead the cavern around folded into a pop up circus and his vision was bombarded with white and red lights flashing to the tune of a booming toy box melody. The melody rang loud in his ears, deafening as he stumbled through this maze of stages, alternating from the Neibolt walls to the arcade. He could feel the weight of tokens in his front pocket, weighing him down. Sinking further, and sinking back. It felt like vertigo, on the edge of a tall wall teetering over about to lose balance. His feet would slip and the midnight hue of iron liquid would make him fall. Then he was back, back under the house, holding deadweight and ripping off his jacket. “Eddie-” he would repeat, over and over._

_\------_

Richie awoke in a heap of sweat. He couldn't even recall falling asleep _. What time was it? Could he see Eddie yet? FUCK, had visiting hours started already?_ He raced to find his phone in the dark, fully sending him off his hotel bed in the process and hitting the floor with no remorse. 

“SHIT- motherfucking..goddamn..ow. Good going, Tozier. Good to see you’ve kept your composure. You're doing great,” he grumbled, staying on the floor for a few moments to get himself together. He reached for his glasses and cell phone from the bedside table. 

Richie put his stupid glasses back on his stupid face, “Haha, jinkies…” 

He blinked a few times, just checking that he wasn’t blind and hoped to God that he hadn’t missed even a minute of visiting hours. When he saw that it was 5:24, he full body sighed in relief. Visiting hours didn’t start till 8:30 so Richie had time to shower and get his shit together before he went to sit with an unconscious Eddie and ramble to him for hours. Maybe this time he could try singing loudly into Eddie’s unhearing or maybe hearing ear, who knows, all he knows is that his rendition is gonna be applause worthy.

While pondering his song choice he rummaged through his drawers to find the perfect outfit, finding his most eye catchingly obnoxious printed button down- a periwinkle blue with hot dogs on it. Eddie would throw down if he knew the price he paid for the thing. Hopefully, today was the day to reveal the mystery. Hopping into his shoes and stumbling to the door, his foot halfway out of his shoe he was on his way. He thought about investing in some slip on Birkenstocks. Eddie would hate those too and Richie loved the thought. He yearned for Eddie to hate his clothing, He yearned for Eddie too but that was a longer story. He thought about brushing his hair. Y’know, to look nice in case Eddie were to wake up. Then he thought about Steve, buzzing around him like a fly, pestering him to stay groomed. He kept it unbrushed to spite him. He was sure Eddie wouldn’t mind. Richie fiddled with the Mustang keys in his hand, gaining amusement from it like a toddler with one of those rattle toys. He was really just stalling having to get into the Mustang, Eddie’s blood still stained into the stiching. He stalled getting into the mustang every day for the past ten days to and from the hospital. He absolutely refused to look in the back seat. All he knew was that Mike scrubbed the ever living hell out of it, and Richie’s pride has yet to thank him for it. He knew he should, that he should’ve the day Mike did it. Richie hated himself and every drop of fake pride he had in his broad shouldered body. He truly did understand that when Mike had called him to Derry, that it wasn’t ill willed. Mike Hanlon doesn’t have an evil bone in his body. Richie wanted so badly to forgive him, forgive all of them but his anger was the only thing keeping his head on his shoulders at the moment. Including Eddie Spaghetti Kaspbrak. Shit, Richie couldn't even come to forgive himself, let alone look at his own vile reflection in the mirror. He loaded into the Mustang, trying his best to ignore the ghost in the backseat.

_\------_

_“I just wanna tell you how I’m feeling_

_Gotta make you understand_

_Never gonna give you up_

_Never gonna let you down--”_ Richie’s voice was so close to Eddie's ear that the lyrics were probably full blast in his ear drums. Even next to Eddie’s ear he was using a soda can as a microphone as he sang. His vocal range was about as pretty as a piece of bologna smacking onto the interstate, but if Rick Astley didn't get through to him he'd have to up the ante. 

_“Never gonna run around and desert you_

_Never gonna make you cry_

_Never gonna say goodbye~”_

No stirring. Okay upping the ante, time. 

“Never..” Richie lightly with a very gentle whap taps Eddie’s uninjured cheek. “..gonna..” whap, “ tell a lie” whap, “..and hurt you~.” 

“Mr. Tozier.” The last whap stopped mid motion as a nurse was throwing him a stern unamused look. “Could you please not attempt to agitate the patient while he's in a comatose state?”

Richie’s voice drops into a low sauntry southern drawl, “My bad, darlin’ you won’t catch me doin’ it again.” 

He backs away from Eddie’s bed, setting down the can, and sits down in the chair opposite. Once the nurse figured he was calm enough she went back to attending other patients, ignoring the impression. Richie didn't watch her go, all the masking energy exhausting as he drooped in his seat, propping his chin against a palm. 

“Okay, Spaghetti Express. Real talk, “ Richie begins. “Are you about ready to wake up yet?” Richie stayed silent for a moment or two, giving Eddie a minute in case he wanted to wake up and engage in their one sided conversation. He bent forward a bit, grasping at one of the sheets laid neat on Eddie’s hospital bed. He ran his fingers over the fabric, inspecting it.

“This a high enough thread count for you, Buttercup?” Richie laughed to himself, “I will burn this hospital down with everyone inside if it means getting you a nicer blanket. Don’t quote me on that. Do you think there's cameras hidden in this bitch? Really don't want to go to jail before you wake up for fake threatening to kill everyone in this building in order to get you a softer blanket. Richie baby, you are the sweetest, hunkiest, funniest man I’ve ever met! I'm leaving Myra! I thought you’d never do it, Eddie my love. Wanna move in with me?” He caught himself in a ramble. It seemed to be an ongoing thing their whole lives, but even more now that there's no one around to beep him. Richie felt pathetic. He wished there were. He knew that the losers were keeping a safe distance, loving him intensely from afar. They knew better than to push unless they felt it was completely necessary. Richie appreciated it. He felt pathetic, like he was talking to a ghost. He was the angry one after all. He does know that he’s getting tired of talking to himself in a hospital room. 

“What am I even doing, Eddie? I pushed away…everyone. I did that. I’m too much of a fucking coward to go beg for their forgiveness. I wouldn’t have to beg. I don’t want to bother. I am so angry that my body aches. I miss them..I miss Stan. I miss you so much. Eds, I’m a 40 fuckin’ year old man crying about our friends in your hospital room. I’m too old for this shit. You’re the one that got hurt. Fuck am I being so selfish for? Because the thought of living in a world without you isn’t worth living? I dunno, spaghetti. I'm at a loss.” Richie leaned back in his chair, pressing his feet flat onto Eddie’s hospital bed and tipping the chair onto only its back legs. 

Richie smirked ever so slightly, “I could totally smother you with a pillow right now.”

_Jesus H Christ, why did I say that? Out of all fucking things I could say to him? I want to be with you? No. I love you? No. I would mass murder everyone in the hospital to get you a blanket and also totally smother you with a pillow? Bingo! Zoo-wee mama, Richie gets off a good one!_

When Beverly and Bill came to visit, Richie kept silent. As silent as he could possibly manage without imploding on himself. He did crack a few dry jokes in an attempt to break the awkwardness. 

Richie rambled to Eddie about everything and nothing until visiting hours were over and he unfortunately had to leave. Sliding his phone from his pocket he decided enough was enough.

**______________________________________**

_Hey Pardner! Sorry. I’m on a Southern kick._

_Can a feller take you out for a drink and talk things out?_

**Mikey: Yeah. Rich, of course.**

**MIkey: Send me the address and I’ll meet you in 20.**

________________________________________

Richie sends the address to Mike, and starts on his way over to the bar. Driving over took only a couple minutes but he didn't mind the wait.

Walking on the sidewalk towards it, it was a typical old bar, a Derry special like any other small town. The walls were red brick and the sign was wooden and about to fall off the hinges, and it was the only one in town. Being used to crammed modern style playhouse type comedy bars with booze on the floor and woozy forms dancing beneath the dim lights it was a change to be back in a smaller, more conservative venue. Though not a venue, they were not here for him, though he felt like a comedy act walking into the place and immediately getting curious hooded eye stares from all directions. You’d think he was the entertainment, though it may just be the internalized fear revving up inside him as he stepped in. You see in a town like Derry, where most lived and died believing what every generation before them passed down, people like him were not welcome. When Mike had first called him he had felt it, the overwhelming rush of shame and gangly adolescent confusion he had felt back as a kid. The kind that makes you run from bullies with all your strength and the kind that hopes that today won’t be the day you’re targeted. He was never good at keeping his head low, his big mouth and shining personality saw to that from day one--but even young him had blocked out every desire, every snidbit of different besides his usual “your mom” snarks. Nonetheless, the bar wasn't too packed only what seemed to the “regulars” sitting in dingy stools and wooden chairs. None of them came at him with a knife, fist, or a good ole’ one two slur combo which meant his closet was deep enough, _good fucking riddance._

 _I’m being ridiculous. I need a drink NOW. Pronto._ Richie thought, sliding nearer to the bar. 

The bartender was a white bearded man with a matching grizzled mustache and Richie had a sudden funny vision of him asking Grumpy Santa for a drink for Christmas. Shaking himself to remind himself why he was there he leaned against the counter. 

“I'll just have a bourbon...and whatever my friend wants, when he gets here,” Richie said, to which Santa nodded and began pouring him his first request. This bar had continued to make Richie nervous, the atmosphere threatening to swallow him whole. That on top of having to have a semi-sober conversation with Mike right now? It was all entirely too much. This is Mike, though. Mike is gentle, kind and _did not devote 27 years to finding out how to kill Pennywise for you to blame Eddie's injury on him, Rich. Get it together._

“Hey, Rich.” Mike greeted upon arrival.

“Hey, buddy.” 

Mike looked about as tired as Richie felt, but as Richie watched him sit down on a stool next to him he could see a glint of something similar to hope in his eyes-- or it could have been apprehension.

“You ordered yet?” Mike started, with a small closed mouth smile.

“Bourbon for my troubles, Mikey, order to your heart’s content!” Richie’s two finger salute and response had no bite to it, only an air of non combative anxiousness. Mike was taken aback by less acidic words and relaxed angling toward the bartender and ordering a simple Manhattan with ice. 

“Look,” Richie huffed a sigh. “I’ve been an asshole. I blamed everyone because..well y’know.. And FUCK why are apoligies so hard.” He took a swig of his drink once it was handed to him. “It wasn't fair of me, okay? I feel like I’m going nutzo without you Losers and my current company is taking too long to wake up from his beauty rest.” 

“I don’t blame you for it, Richie. We all suffered.” Mike set his glass down contemplatively with a slight raised brow. “I won’t deny that you’ve been a little bit of an asshole, though.” 

“Mikey, Mikey, Mikalicious, I’m gonna need you to do a bit better than that. Just go full bar fight central and sock me in the face, you’re being too nice.” Richie tapped his own cheek dragging an invisible X on a spot. “Trust me it’s happened before.”

“How about we drink instead.” Mike shook his head, raising a toast. “Apology accepted.” 

In all of this mess Richie had never really thought of how the other Losers were grappling with the events that had unfolded, too focused on his own struggles. Thinking of Mike now, he thought of how lonely he must have been, twenty seven years of being stuck in this hell town as all his friends jetted off and forgot everything. All of his days devoted to saving the very friends who had left him behind, never wavering in his mission to find the solution to the clown problem. He had done it too, impossibly figuring it out. This town and their oath bonded group would have never seen the light of day. All of them would still be in a haze of amnesia if not for Mike, forgetting each other and huge parts of their identities. He would have never met Eddie again, or his ragtag group of losers again, the circumstances were not even close to ideal but still. Besides, Mike couldn't have known the outcome, the risks were high from the get go and they all could have been the ones in the back of that Mustang or ten feet under. Without Mike, more kids would be dead, more innocent lives, and he never once expected a thank you. If Mike hadn’t come and convinced them to stay, he would have lived out the rest of his life in Derry. He would take the memories of the Losers to the grave while they didn’t even remember he existed. Without Mike he’d still be vacantly telling jokes that weren't even his own, still trying to figure out why he felt like an incomplete wash up. Eddie getting hurt wasn’t Mike’s fault. If anything, it was Richie’s own. _Why the hell did I freeze up? Why didn’t I move him? I pep talked Eddie into being brave, why couldn’t I follow my own fucking advice?_

A bit later into the night, and a few drinks in, Mike and Richie were nice and loosened up. 

Richie’s face flushed with intoxication, scrunching up his nose as he spoke, “SO. Mikey bear, just a heads up..I don’t know how ready I am to apologize to the others yet. I mean, shit, this conversation has already aged me by 30 years.” 

Mike tilted his head back, laughing beautifully, “Take your time, Rich. They understand. You know they love you, right?” 

Richie blinked at him, “Yeah. I love them too.”

“Im serious, Richie.” 

Richie found himself getting choked up, he figured he could just blame it on the bourbon. He has such an intense love for the Losers that it could give him a stroke. He was just so angry. At the world, at himself, a tiny section of his heart was angry at Eddie for being so brave. _Yet he couldn’t be prouder of him._ He wished that he himself could have been braver. 

“For once man, me too.” Richie said, sharing a smile with Mike. They sat in soothing silence for a few moments, easing back into each other’s company after days of avoiding each other. _This is good, I missed this. I missed all of them._

“You know, I miss Stan.” Richie suddenly blurted. 

Mike nodded, grim. “We all do.” His drink clanked on the counter, empty. 

Ever since Jade of the Orient when those slips of paper in the fortune cookies had arranged themselves into that mocking message none of them had time to mourn. Not really, not with so many other factors risking their lives too. Stan was always the voice of reason as kids, tagging along just as much of a Loser but still one of first to match Richie’s humor with his cutting attitude. Stan had always felt wiser than most people in Derry, not that it was hard to do. He kept Richie on his toes. Richie doesn’t want to think about the extent he would go to be able to see him again.

Once Richie made sure Mike got home safely, he returned back to his mildly shitty Derry motel room. He changed out of his monstrosity of a hot dog shirt and into something more comfortable. He was drunker than he cared to admit. 

He decides to call Stan.

He had gotten Stan’s number from Mike earlier after mentioning to him that he would do anything to hear Stan’s voice again. He hasn’t heard it since they were snotty kids back in Derry. Knowing that Stan wasn’t going to answer, he dialed the number that Mike sent to him over text and held it to his ear. It went straight to voicemail. 

“ _ Hello, this is Stanley Uris speaking, Leave your name and number after the tone.”  _

Richie’s heart felt like someone had reached through his chest cavity and tore his heart out. He had to physically feel his chest to make sure he wasn’t actually injured. Stan sounded exactly like Richie imagined he would as an adult. 

“Very professional,  _ Stanley Uris,”  _ He joked. “Hey, Stan the man. It’s good to hear your voice, buddy. We miss you like crazy. We beat IT. Fuckin’ crazy ass clown, right? IT uh...Eddie got hurt. His insides are all messed up. Yeah, he hasn’t woken up yet. But I know he will, he’s too much of a stubborn prick to let me outlive him..” He trailed off, voice tightening. “...Stan, I love him. It hurts, I love Eddie fucking Kaspbrak. Stan, I wish you were here to tell me what to do. You always were good at that. You would probably have some stellar advice right now.  _ Damn _ ..damn it. I forgot I even loved him until I came back to Derry. He’s married...Fuck me right?! Not like that makes any difference. You have no idea how hard you would beat my ass right now. I had forgotten before. How did it forget? When Mike called it made me hurl so hard you have no idea. Everything came back. Did that happen for you? Is that why you…” Silence stretched on the other side. “Stan, Staniel. You were my best friend. I just wanted you to know that. Hope birdland is treating you well.”

Richie ended the call. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come talk to us on twt! @reechietoes @spaghettiieddii

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to us on twitter if you'd like! @reechietoes & @spaghettiieddii


End file.
